


Wax Wings (of Pigeon Feathers)

by Blackwatch_McCree



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universes, Angst, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Time Travel, and Osiris being stubborn for like 8k words, like a lot of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21676702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackwatch_McCree/pseuds/Blackwatch_McCree
Summary: In the Infinite Forest, not even time is a limiting factor. Osiris will search eternity for an answer while refusing to look at the one right in front of him. Or, Osiris tries to find a happily ever after and refuses to believe there isn't one.
Relationships: Osiris/Saint-14 (Destiny)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 114





	Wax Wings (of Pigeon Feathers)

**Author's Note:**

> WELL it took approximately 48 hours before this was completely non canon-compliant but the original story wasn't the most faithful anyway so really it's like nothing of great value was lost

_Saint-14 pauses for a long time before he asks, “Have you read the myth of Icarus?”_

_“Pre-Golden Age.” Osiris responds. “A boy flies too close to the sun and falls into the sea. I hardly see how this is relevant to what we’re discussing.”_

_“Stop being obtuse. You know what I’m saying. Your ambition is going to -”_

_“I’m not being obtuse.” Osiris interrupts, without apology. “There’s been a misunderstanding. You believe I’m the boy in the story, chasing some impossible ideal.” He chuckles, lifts his chin, stares down the bridge of his nose. “No, Saint. I’m the sun.”_

-i.-

Saint-14 introduces the concept of the Vanguard to him in the same breath that he tells Osiris, with the full confidence that there would be no protest in response, that Saint has elected him for Commander. For the first time he can remember, Osiris doesn’t know what to say. He’ll eventually come to realize that in the length of his friendship with Saint-14 that, to his great consternation, this will not be an uncommon occurrence, but for now he stares with his mouth open and can barely form his lips around the universal motion of silent confusion without outright asking Saint, _what are you thinking?_

Instead, he licks his lips and responds with forced politeness, “I’m sorry?” 

Saint continues as if Osiris had never interjected. “Because such a council has never been established before, then the first Vanguard Champions will, of course, set precedent for any that follow afterwards. As Commander, you’ll - “

“Saint.” Osiris says, but he might as well have been speaking upwind into a tornado. Saint blows past his interruption with practiced tenacity, and Osiris feels like he’s caught in the path of a Trample Fist of Havoc, and Saint isn’t even a Striker. As far as Osiris has understood, he has always preferred Sentinel. 

“- have an additional responsibility - representation of the united Vanguard’s decision. We will look to you for guidance as we look to the sun. You will help light our way, a beacon in the Darkness to guide and to ward. The strength of your leadership will determine the strength of our defenses. In short, our fates are in your hands.” 

Saint finally stops talking, and Osiris seizes the opportunity. “Lovely speech,” He says, and doesn’t even try to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “I can tell you practiced that. Didn’t even need notecards.” 

“This is what I will present to the Council when I nominate you for Vanguard Commander,” Saint says, as if it’s already a final decision.

Osiris grits his teeth. “You seem awfully confident that I’ll accept,” he says. “And what if I reject your nomination?” 

Saint looks at him with a stare as even as his tone of voice. “Will you?” 

Even as Osiris stares back, his response sticks in his throat like it’s caught on a fisherman’s line. Later, he would blame the suddenness of the gesture for his hesitation. Sure, he and Saint fought together in Six Fronts. They’re comrades - friends even, who enjoy debating leadership as much as matching their Light against each other. Osiris knew that Saint was close to the Speaker, and he knew that the Speaker was looking to put together a Council in the wake of the demise of the Iron Lords. Somehow, when putting two and two together, he never counted on himself as being part of that strange calculation. 

“Why me?” He finally asks. 

Saint’s answer is prompt, as if he was expecting the question. “Because Vanguard Commander is not something to be taken lightly, and I know you will not take it lightly. You are a seeker of truths and a firm believer in the practicality of power, and beyond that, you are a Warlock driven more by pragmatism than hypothetical theory. That is a very rare set of traits, Osiris, and that is why I believe you are worthy of the position.” 

For the second time within the span of their conversation, Osiris finds himself speechless. He breaks Saint’s even gaze and looks to the side instead, somewhere in the distance to the left past Saint’s head. Usually when Saint talks about him, it’s criticism, or a warning. About how Osiris is too ambitious, about how he doesn’t heed what people say about him, about how his controversial opinions have started the rumor that he’s actually a failed Golden Age experiment mistakenly reincarnated into an arrogant human ( _Be careful, Saint, that last one might actually be true - and then what would the fine people of the Last City think of_ you _, keeping company with an unconventional Warlock who prefers direct action to theoretical research? Ah, I think the Last City would understand that the only kind of Warlock whose company I feel are worth to keep at all is the unconventional kind.)_

So once again, Osiris blames the suddenness of the statement for catching him off-guard. He sets his mouth in a thin line and refuses to respond too quickly, out of caution of saying something he’ll regret. The last thing he wants Saint to know is that not only was the response completely unexpected, it was flattering - and Osiris is not a man usually moved by flattery. 

It’s why he doesn’t even want to admit to himself that something about Saint’s flattery in particular set the inside of his chest alight, flames flickering against his lungs, burning away the air inside. Osiris takes shallow breaths like he’s drowning in the open air and concludes it’s not so much the words that Saint said, or how he said them - it’s about who those words came from, though he’s not sure that’s much better to admit. So instead he stays silent until the roil of the blaze dies down and he feels he can breathe normally, speak without the singe of fire in his throat. 

“Thank you,” he finally says. 

“I look forward to great things from you, Commander,” Saint says, a tone of finality in his voice.

This time, Osiris doesn’t protest. 

-ii.-

The clearing is about a hundred and fifty feet wider than it was when they started, and some of the trees are still smouldering. Osiris lands on his feet and the solar blade dissipates from his hand. He’s panting, sweat dripping down his face, but more to that he’s finally exhausted. The sun is low and twilight winks in the sky; they’ve been fighting for hours, Light matched against Light, but he thinks he’s finally done.

At Osiris dismissing the solar sword, Saint lowers the void shield and his stance relaxes. He walks over, dropping the shield to the ground (it fizzles away before touching the grass) and stands in front of Osiris, barely breathing harder than normal. 

“You were early today,” he says. “Another catastrophe, then?” 

A flaming ball of pure solar light goes flying past his head, but he doesn’t so much as flinch. Saint-14 has known Osiris since Six Fronts, and these kinds of tantrums aren’t so much uncommon as the usual state of things. 

“Why bother recommending me as Vanguard Commander if everyone else is just going to disagree with every order I try to give?” Osiris asks, practically spitting the words out between heavy breaths. He may be unarmed, but he hasn’t lowered his stance yet and his rage still bubbles on the surface. 

Saint’s aura, though heightened from the battle before, is calm in comparison. “I would not have recommended you if I thought you were incapable.”

“This is not a matter of capability.”

“Did you think that leadership automatically came with supplicance?” 

“I expected the position to come with some sort of weight,” Osiris says. Even as tired as he is, his Light resurges hot and bright as he snaps, “But apparently what the Speaker wanted was some puppetted figurehead to agree with every decision he attempts to unilaterally make!”

This time, Saint pauses. His aura dies down for a moment, then flares up again twice as bright. “Osiris, that’s hardly a fair judgment of Father’s intentions.” 

“This entire council is a parody of democracy at best. The Speaker already has Hideo in his pocket. Jalaal isn’t far behind. Lakshmi, at least, still has her wits about her. You’ll always be on his side and Tallulah, well, nobody can predict what she’ll do.” He laughs, and where the humor should’ve been in the sound only bitterness reverberates. “What’s the point of a Vanguard Commander if I can’t even represent the interests of my own Vanguard?”

“Nobody is expecting perfection, even from you, Osiris.”

Osiris’s answer is immediate, almost as if he was expecting the response. “Perfection is the only thing anyone has ever wanted from me.”

With a sigh, Saint wills his Light to dim - not out of deference, but out of a desire for mediation. He brushes some soot off the sleeves of his armor and places a hand on Osiris’s shoulder. His grip is tight, but his voice is gentle. “You only think that because that’s what you expect of yourself. You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”

Unfortunately, Osiris still has the luxury of pride at this point. Later, he would look back on his actions and blame inexperience for his response, but for now he sneers, shrugs the hand off his shoulder, and presses his palm in the middle of Saint’s chestplate, trying to push him away.

“I can _only_ do this alone,” he says, and Saint is silent as he watches Osiris turn away for a moment before transmatting back to his ship.

-iii.-

Osiris never wanted followers. They’re sycophants at best, trailing after the ends of his robe like children vying for attention. He takes apprentices, because they’re willing to challenge him. He ignores the “followers,” because they hang on his every word like Osiris is some prophet come to save Humanity from its own sins. Idiots. Osiris has always worked to save Humanity, but the threats are out there, not from within. He figures that if he ignores them for long enough, rebuffs their demands for attention, acts like they’re not there, they’ll go away eventually.

Much to his chagrin, his aloofness seems to radicalize them more. Osiris figures there’s no winning with these people - either he ignores them and becomes some mythical figure in their mind, even though he’s a physical being right here arguing with Ikora, or he acknowledges them and they take it as validation. Funny how they seem to treat every word he says as sacred texts, and completely ignore the part where he tells them to fuck off. 

At least Saint has finally stopped finding it humorous. Now he finds it worrying, which might be worse. 

“The more attention they draw to you, the bigger a target you become,” Saint tells him, which is nothing that Osiris doesn’t already know. 

“What would you have me do?” Osiris grouses back at him. “Shall I burst into their ranks, Light blazing, and set everything on fire? Should I publically burn all their texts and condemn their actions like I’m accusing them of witchcraft? Strip naked and dance on top of the tower until I get arrested and removed from my position for clear insanity?” 

“The first two are a good start,” Saint responds. He pauses for a long while and lets the silence stretch between them. When he finally speaks again, the humor has gone from his voice. “Father is increasingly growing agitated by this. He thinks your conviction is causing a rift in the unity of the council. He says he’s feeling increasingly pressured to act.”

“Pressured?” Osiris nearly laughs. “Pressured by whom, exactly? I’ve heard the rumors. Who’s telling him to act?” 

“He worries that a divided council will jeopardize the City. He worries that the Vanguard Commander is more interested in making heretical statements specifically to antagonize than working to ensure the continued peace and safety of the city.”

Osiris’s temper flares and his voice raises. “What does that old fool think my work is FOR? Public popularity?” 

“He thinks you should be taking imminent threats more seriously than worrying about future ones. The Fallen grow bolder every day. Andal’s Hunters bring increasing reports of House treatises and military mobilization. We could be looking at a full-scale invasion within a few months.” 

“And when we quell that one, then the next threat will loom. And the next, and the next, and the next.” Osiris paces along the length of the room, punctuating his words with ostentatious hand motions. “So long as the Traveler is here, Humanity will never stop being a target. And by the time we are finally facing down the Vex, by the time we’ve fought off every other threat as they come to us, then the Vex will have already won. If the Speaker _truly_ cared about Humanity’s safety, instead of being swayed by the security of his own office, he would understand the truth in my statements. We need to bring the fight to them.” 

“The Vanguard Commander can’t be running off when we need him here. I did not recommend you for this position for you to use it chasing some theoretical danger millenia away.”

“The danger is very much real, old friend. And what of you? Running off by yourself to hunt some Kell? You’re hardly one to be lecturing me about leaving ‘with trouble on the horizon.’” 

“This is a mission specifically given to me by Father. If we can knock out Fallen leadership, their organization falls apart.” Saint pauses here, and says. “I leave tomorrow.”

Osiris stops pacing. He looks at Saint. A thousand words pile onto the tip of his tongue and slip through his fingers like so many grains of fine sand. Osiris attempts to sift through them all, testing their feel, but his mouth has dried up and none of them fit. Finally, the desert in his throat, he asks, “Is this why you sought me out today?” 

Saint doesn’t seem to be fazed, but he’s always been a difficult man to read. No matter how many things Osiris prides himself on, understanding what Saint-14 is thinking has never managed to make the list. “I wanted the opportunity to entreat you one last time.”

With a snarl, Osiris bares his teeth. “‘One last time’ - Pah! You talk as if you already know the future. How are you so sure I won’t see you again?”

The humor returns in Saint’s voice, but Osiris can’t find the joke. “You tell me, Osiris. Aren’t you supposed to be the prophet?” 

-iv.-

Saint-14 is right, of course. He’s always had a knack for knowing exactly how things were going to turn out, which only makes Osiris wonder why he still played into it all the same. Osiris figures, Saint has apparently been gifted with the birds-eye view of the timeline of the world. If he sees the pieces moving along, sees the way the universe twists and turns, why would he still play the game? It’s a question that Saint has never responded to; the answer now lies silent with him forever, floating in a reverent tomb. 

Osiris has still never seen it for himself. He’s heard the Young Wolf’s description; he can imagine the scene in his mind. Saint-14 on an altar, bathed in reflected light; in the background of the tomb, seemingly infinite mountains of Vex bodies pile up, a solemn testament to the Titan’s power. Guardians love their titles: Warlord, Iron Lord, Dredgen, The Man with the Golden Gun… and yet Saint-14 was the only one who ever lived up to his: The Greatest Titan Who Ever Lived. Osiris doesn’t need to see the tomb. He’s sure it’s a breathtaking sight. 

He doesn’t need to see the tomb, even though he almost feels something akin to obligation that he should visit. It’s nothing but asinine sentimentalism, of course - Saint-14 has died his final death, and his Light is returned to the Traveler now. Osiris has confirmation the tomb exists, and so there’s no difference whether or not he visits. It’s not like saying goodbye in person will bring Saint back or even grant him peace. This is what Osiris repeatedly tells himself when he feels that tug in his chest, pulling him towards a burnt-out future where a Titan has been laid to rest. It’s what he tells Sagira, every time she brings up that they should visit. 

Osiris insists it will make no difference, because it’s true. Time in the Infinite Forest shifts as easily as the desert winds on Mercury, but he is not part of the Forest, and neither is the Young Wolf, and neither is Saint-14. Their fates are immutable, their Light an anomaly, their presence a wild variable the Vex couldn’t hope to control. In their last conversation, Saint talked to him with the same tone of finality in a soldier’s voice before dawn of a doomed battle, and then he marched right towards his fate knowing it. If Osiris sees the truth of the prediction with his own eyes, he can no longer deny the veracity of Saint’s prescience. But here is one thing he’s certain of: Saint-14 knew he was going to die chasing Osiris into the Infinite Forest, and he allowed Osiris to go anyway. 

Realizing _that_ , the narrative changes. It’s no longer obligation pulling him towards the tomb; it’s guilt keeping him away. Osiris came to the Infinite Forest to change Humanity’s fate. Saint came to the Infinite Forest to face his. But here’s the other thing Osiris is certain of: if one fate can change, all of them can. He could have proved Saint wrong. He could have found him before the Vex drained the Light from his body and left him with nothing but a shotgun and an iron will. 

Without a word to Sagira, Osiris digs his fingers into the mechanisms of the Infinite Forest. If the Vex can simulate outcomes, so can he. If the Vex can move between time streams, he can figure it out. The Vex Collective may be brilliant, may be able to process more data in a minute than Osiris could collect in his entire immortal lifespan, but they still have to function within the diegesis of this universe’s physics and rules, and there is nothing they could do that Osiris can’t. 

So he digs into the data streams feeding into the Infinite Forest. He brushes past battles won and wars lost. He ignores the countless lives created and lost slipping through his fingers. He overlooks the millions of scenes replaying endlessly, like records caught scratching for eternity. He doesn’t have the time to simulate every possibility, so he starts with three. Osiris pulls what he needs, and he builds. 

<> I. <>

Osiris stands on what’s left of the tower and watches as the Last City burns below him. The knuckles on his hands are white as he grips the railing. They have survived so much - Six Fronts, Twilight Gap, SIVA, the Red War, Warmind’s Fall… the years stretched on and the threats came, one after the other, so frequently that he can barely even remember what happened in most of them. They have faced those attacks, and they have survived - always a little worse for the wear, but with more determination to face the next threat: a rope that knots tighter even as its individual strands weaken and fray. 

But every rope has a snapping point, and Osiris has had to watch as the Vex cut through the knot with Alexandrian intent. On the first wave, they had to give Mercury and fall back to Venus. Then they gave Venus and fell back to Earth. Then as the Vex marched onward they were forced to continue falling back: to the European Dead Zone; to the Tower; to the Inner City. There’s no more ground to give. The only place to go is down, and the Vex march ever forward. Osiris tastes bile and bitterness on his tongue, burning acrid like battery acid and gluing his teeth together in the vice-grip clench of his jaw. 

There’s movement behind him, a heavy shuffle of uneven steps. It’s not the Vex; they walk with clockwork precision - you could calibrate a metronome by their gait. Osiris doesn’t turn around, even when the figure stands at his side and looks over with him.

“I thought you would be gloating by now,” Saint-14 says, with a voice that’s half-static. 

“This is not a victory.” Osiris hisses through grit teeth. “This is the last thing I wanted to be right about.” 

“Not about the Vex,” Saint responds. He places his hands on the railing as well, and Osiris refuses to look at them. He knows already that he will not like what he sees. “About the Traveler.” 

Osiris is silent. Finally, he responds, “The Fallen must be uproarious right about now.” 

“Some are. Some sympathize with what happened. They have taken some refugee colonies and left the system.” 

“That’s… very generous of them.” Osiris says. “Are they off chasing their Great Machine again?” 

“The entire system will be one “Great Machine” eventually. Once the Vex are done terraforming here, I can’t imagine what else will stop them. Mara and her Reef Awoken have fled. The Fallen are gone. The Taken, perhaps? But they seem content to follow in the shadow of the Vex’s conquests like scavengers, Taking the weak and those left behind.” 

“And us?” Osiris asks, still staring at the blaze in the City. He asks the question and before the last syllable drops from his tongue he feels like he’s swallowed the fire below and all the ash and smoke is roiling in his chest, choking out his breath in staccato bursts. 

Saint is quiet for a long time. The crackle rises up and then dies down in Osiris’s chest, but he doesn’t risk speaking again and fanning the flames. Finally, Saint places a hand on Osiris’s shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

The grip is too tight, too afraid. Everything is falling to pieces: the City is burning underneath them, humanity is huddled in broken groups as refugee ships scatter across the galaxy, Saint-14 feels fear for once in his life, and Osiris can’t help but throw his head back and laugh deliriously at the soot-blackened sky. Saint wants to stand here and apologize. Apologize! As if any of this is his fault, and as if his remorse says anything to Osiris except that semantic idiosyncrasies apparently still stand in the face of apocalypse: when there’s nothing left to say, _I’m sorry_ is the only default. 

“I’m sorry for not letting you go. You could have prevented this. My selfishness to keep you here is what doomed us all.” 

The laughter stops instantly, like a needle wrenched off the record without so much as a scratch; Osiris turns and stares in disbelief. His jaw trembles, though he can’t tell why. His face is burning, and he won’t admit why. He ultimately decides that it’s because he’s angry, and he reaches out, grabs Saint by the cloth part of his armor, and pulls him forward. 

“Don’t you dare -” he starts, as the fire builds up in his chest again. He has been a Dawnblade since Sagira first awakened him centuries ago, but his Light left with the Traveler, and the fire within isn’t the disciplined blade he’s so used to. It’s wild and furious and it bursts from him erratically. It surges through his fingers as they twist in Saint’s armor, it fills his throat with smoke, it burns away the tears and leaves him trembling. 

Osiris opens his mouth to speak again, and only then does he realize he’s not angry, and he can’t even muster the strength to pretend like he is. Only then does he realize that there’s nothing left to say. He refuses to apologize. 

A cool hand cups his cheek, and Osiris clenches his jaw again. 

“You were more right about the Traveler than you expected,” Saint says. His voice is lilting, like when he makes a joke, but like Osiris’s laughter, there’s no real humor in it. “Even without your Light, you still have your fire.” 

“Shut up,” Osiris says, because it’s a better option than anything else he could’ve said in response. 

Saint blatantly ignores him and says, “Allow me one more moment of selfishness.”

“What’s that?” 

“That if this has to happen, at least I have you by my side while it does.” 

Osiris goes silent and stares at the floor. Saint’s thumb runs a line down his jaw and Osiris tilts his head up reflexively, tired eyes wanting to shut - but then he sees it, and he snaps back to alertness: behind Saint’s broad shoulders, the all-too familiar pixelation of bright blue squares begins to materialize out of the darkness. They had centuries working together, and now, with the light growing brighter as the transmat nears completion, it doesn’t feel even remotely long enough. 

Osiris lets go of Saint’s armor and picks up his discarded Pulse Rifle. He says, “The Saint-14 I know would not go quietly. Would you fight beside me one more time, old friend?” 

Saint picks up his own shotgun and the hand on Osiris’s shoulder this time is firm, confident. “I would have no greater honor,” he says, and together the two of them turn to face a sea of unblinking red eyes.

<> II. <>

The Kell’s body lies on the ground. His arms are docked and cauterized with the targeted slice of a flaming sword slice. His skull is shattered by the impact of the hardest headbutt Osiris has ever seen - his _own_ ears are still ringing, and he wasn’t the one who delivered the final blow. 

Saint hardly seems bothered by the gore coating his helm. After verifying the Kell’s death, he reports back to the Speaker (Osiris politely stands out of view of the vidfeed). He doesn’t even bother cleaning up the mess on his face, and Osiris watches the blood drip from his forehead and automatically wipes the sweat from his own brow. 

He only steps up to Saint after the vidfeed cuts and leaves the two of them alone in its wake. 

“What now?” Osiris asks.

Saint looks over. A drop of the Kells blood runs down the side of his face, lines the edge of his jaw before dripping off the point of his chin. “I never thought I’d see the day where YOU were asking ME for direction,” He responds. “Are you feeling alright? The fight must’ve been more strenuous than you thought.” 

It was a tough fight - even with both of them, it had been a close battle. If Solkis hadn’t challenged Saint’s headbutt - if he’d pulled away, or simply drove his arc blades into Saint’s chest, Osiris might be giving the Speaker a very different report. The Fallen were generally obsessed with the Traveler, but the House of Devils in particular was determined to prove through sheer force of power that they deserved it more than humanity did. 

But now their Kell lies dead on the ground, his blood dripping from Saint’s face, and that will deter them - at least until a different Kell manages to claw into the power vacuum Solkis’s death left. But by then, the Fallen will be scattered, disorganized, and the Last City is stronger for it. 

Osiris looks at Solkis’s body and presses his lips together in a thin line. This is what the Vanguard should be doing - proactive dismantling of their potential threats, not cooped up in the tower, arguing politics and myopically reacting to whatever might already be knocking on the Last City’s walls. By the time certain enemies are attacking, they will have already lost. With some dismay, he wonders if this is what drives Hunters into the wilds. 

“Osiris?” Saint asks, in the silence that follows his question. He asks again, “Are you alright?” 

“I suppose we should return to the Tower now,” Osiris finally says. He doesn’t take his eyes off of the Kell’s body. 

Saint’s voice is measured skepticism as he responds, “That’s rather indecisive language for you.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Osiris, you’re not being subtle. You want me to ask why.” 

Osiris stares at him, challenging. “Then ask.” 

Saint stares back, but he won’t back down. “As Vanguard Commander, your duty is within the Tower. Why are you hesitant to return?” 

Osiris’s answer is prompt. “Because the Vanguard role is nothing but a limiting, short-sighted position meant to chain the potential of powerful guardians in some political show of deference to a council too afraid of giving any ground that they’re not willing to proactively gain it.” 

“Those are strong opinions,” Saint responds, voice lilting in the way that it does when he finds something amusing, though not necessarily funny. “But at this point in our friendship, I’d be foolish to think that controversial opinions are uncharacteristic of you.” 

“Saint, the Vanguard Role should not be a permanent one. As the first Vanguards, to set precedence for all the rest, it would be remiss to represent it as a duty until death. In all the history of representative leadership, the only permanent positions are ones of dictatorial power. The message we’re sending by perpetuating that idea -”

“The Vanguard was never meant to be a representative leadership for the people of the Last City. The Vanguard works to guide the Guardians.”

Osiris squares his shoulders, puffs out his chest. He’ll never actually match against Saint-14’s height and bulk, but it’s the motion that matters. “And if all the Guardians were to leave the city all at once, how long do you think it would stand? We have the Fallen on our doorstep and Hive activity entrenched in our moon. We have the Vex scrying every possible future and the Cabal waiting for any sign of weakness to strike. And these are only the enemies we know about. What else is out there, in the vast expanse of the universe, drawn to us like a beacon from the Traveler’s Light?” 

“And that’s why the Vanguard’s leadership is so important,” Saint responds. The guardians may be powerful, but they need guidance. We tell them where to strike. Plan their method of attack. You’re right, Osiris - there are too many threats out there for the small group of the Traveler’s Chosen to handle all of them. That’s why we direct them, so that our efforts are most impactful where we choose them to be.” 

“You say that like I don’t already know,” Osiris snaps.

“I find it helpful to remind you every so often,” Saint responds in kind. “What are you getting at with this, Osiris?”

Osiris motions to the dead Kell on the floor. “Things like this? These things are impactful. We can help the City more by destabilizing our enemies. Others can rule in our place. I know you’ve been training your protege Zavala, and Ikora is a far more diplomatic politician than I. We could… We could become a fireteam, Saint.”

Saint says amusedly, “Sometimes I wonder if Sagira meant to bring you back as a Hunter.” 

Osiris glares at him, but chooses to ignore the slight this time. “Does that mean you don’t accept?” He asks. His voice hasn’t gone quiet, but there’s a more subdued nature to it. Saint looks back at him and his eyes are soft. 

“I didn’t say that,” He says. “I’m just surprised you asked at all. I’d have expected you to simply state that this is what we’re doing now, and expected me to go along with it.” 

“That’s hardly an answer, Saint.”

“Yes,” Saint finally says. 

Osiris reaches up and wipes away the drop of Kell’s blood threatening to drip from Saint’s chin. He presses the pad of his thumb into the middle of Saint’s breastplate - when he lifts his finger, he leaves a blue thumbprint, perfectly outlined in all its fine whorls, pressed into the silver metal. 

“You will forgive me, I hope, for requesting clarification on your intent,” Saint says. He looks down at the bloody thumbprint, though he doesn’t move to smear it or wipe it off. 

“I thought it’d be obvious,” Osiris responds, and doesn’t elaborate.

Saint goes silent now, looking down at the thumbprint. After a moment, he leans down and places his palm flat in a pool of blue blood, lifting it up dripping, beads splashing back onto the floor. He places the hand on Osiris’s shoulder, holding it there for a while, and when he lifts it up the blood stays behind, stretching across the pauldron from the back to where it brushes against Osiris’s neck. 

“As Guardians, we won’t have the same resources the Vanguard gets,” Saint warns him. “We’ll be on our own, fighting against an infinite army.” 

“I know,” Osiris says. “Perhaps this, like many others, is yet another path to futility in the face of the Vex.”

“Then…?”

“Then when we do face them, at least it will be together, as soldiers. As a fireteam.” 

Saint mulls over the response. Finally, he says, “And you’re okay with that?” 

Osiris closes his eyes. He feels the fire of his Light roiling inside him, burning the air from his lungs.

<> III. <>

Osiris phases through a portal in the Infinite Forest and steps from a war-torn battlefield to a serene field of golden wheat grass and hot pink blossoms on low, flat-topped trees. One foot is still in the burning landscape behind him, and a Cabal Thresher fires two missiles in his direction; Osiris pays it no heed and as he moves forward, the portal winks closed behind him.

Osiris blinks against the bright warmth of the Mercury sun. In the distance of the field, he sees a figure sitting cross-legged atop a mountain of Vex bodies. There’s a shotgun slung across his back, a _fleur-de-lis_ imprinted on the underside of the magazine loading port and roman numerals for the number Fourteen etched into the side in gold lettering. Saint always did love his pre Golden-Age symbolism. 

As Osiris approaches, the figure looks over his shoulder. An Exo Titan in silver and purple tilts his head and reaches for his shotgun.

Osiris stops. “I’m not a simulation,” He says. “The Vex can’t simulate Guardians.”

Saint pulls his shotgun from its holster and rests it across his lap. “The Vex can’t simulate the _Light_ ,” he responds. “They can shape the body of anyone they want; make them say what they would say. Make them do things they never would.” He lifts the shotgun then, aiming down its sights. 

“Like what?”

Osiris is looking down the barrel as he asks the question. He doesn’t flinch, and instead lifts his gaze to stare Saint straight in the face. He focuses on the Titan’s eyes, the shotgun blurred in his peripheral. 

Saint’s voice is even when he responds, “Like making them come find me, when they never would.” 

“Pull the trigger,” Osiris says. He’s dabbled in too much thanatology to be unused to the sensation of death. “After you kill me, Sagira will bring me back. Will that be proof enough for you?” 

Osiris waits for the shot with a steady look. He doesn’t take his gaze off of Saint, doesn’t once flick his eyes towards the shotgun. Finally, Saint lowers the barrel, shaking his head.

“There are other ways to prove your Light besides dying,” he says. 

With a flourish, Osiris produces a flaming sword in his hand. Wings sprout from his back and he fires a bolt of fire directly at Saint. The Titan doesn’t move, and Osiris curves the line of flame away from him at the last second; it singes the silver armor as it whizzes past, crashing into the trees far behind them. 

As he dismisses the sword from his hand, Osiris asks, “Why did you think it was so uncharacteristic of me to come find you?” He tries to morph the hurt in his voice into indignant anger, and thinks he does a fairly good job of it. 

“Because the Osiris I remember never sought people out. Because if you wanted me to find you, I would have before this.” Saint fixes him with a steady gaze. “I traced your path for years, Osiris, and never caught up to you. Just your reflections, left behind like a breadcrumb trail of golden shadows. And so you understand why I find it so suspicious that as soon as I finally stop chasing you, you come to me?”

Even though he’s convinced he’s done nothing wrong, Osiris can’t help the feeling of guilt creeping into his gut. “I had heard the reports,” he says, slowly. “Of a Titan wandering the depths of the Infinite Forest, rampaging carnage through the Vex using a shotgun stamped with a golden flower.” 

“Who else did you think that might’ve been?” Saint asks. 

“I was too busy to investigate,” Osiris responds. “The Vex were in so many timelines, threatening answers in so many events, that -”

He stops, because Sagira is nudging him. “Not the right time, Osiris,” she hisses in his ear. 

“So why now?” Saint asks. He shifts on his throne of dismantled Vex, and a limb rolls off of the pile - an arm without a hand, or a leg, perhaps. “The Vex are timeless. Surely your workload hasn’t lightened so significantly.” Saint fixes him with a steely look, and doesn’t give him the chance to say a word before he answers his own question. “You came looking for me because you finally need my help now.” 

“No.” Osiris responds, immediately. He takes longer with the rest of the response, but Saint is a patient man. Finally, Sagira nudges him again (harder this time, and with the sharp point of her shell) and Osiris continues. “I have… I have always needed your help. I came to find you now because I have finally realized that.” 

Saint is silent for a moment, his finger tapping a tempo into the side of the shotgun, like he’s timing the seconds between Osiris’s words hanging in the air and the next thing to be said. He ends up breaking the silence himself. “You know,” he starts, “one of the things that has always been simultaneously admirable and infuriating about you, Osiris, is how adamantly you blaze forward, and how you never look back at the ones you’ve left behind.” 

Osiris’s hackles fly up and he bristles. “I didn’t leave anyone behind,” He snarls. “You act like I’m irreplaceable, like I _abandoned_ my duty to protect the City, when that’s the only reason I ever cared enough to leave! I’m sure the City’s leadership is doing fine without me - the Speaker never wanted me on his curated council of sycophants anyway, and I’m sure he’s perfectly happy without me there challenging his decrees. I never asked you to come out here, never asked you take me back to a City that didn’t want me there. I’m here to prevent the timeline that will doom us all, and it seems nobody understands that!”

“I wasn’t talking about the Vanguard,” Saint says, in a remarkably tired voice.

“Then what -” Osiris starts, before what Saint means dawns on him. “Oh. _Oh._ ” He says, and then finds himself at a loss for words. Realization pulls the plug in his stomach; his hot anger drains away from his chest and he stands there, a cold, hollow emptiness rattling in his ribs. 

Sagira, as she often does when Osiris can’t or won’t speak for himself, pipes up. “Saint, that’s not really fair and you know it,” she says, but Osiris shakes his head hard enough to ruffle the feathers in his coat.

“No, Sagira, he’s right.” He says. Shocked, Sagira looks back at him, waiting. Osiris holds his stance, but the fight has gone out of him. He’s not sure what else to say - maybe because there _isn’t_ anything else to say. “I’m… I’m sorry,” he finally murmurs, and the admission is like wrenching teeth. His jaw is sore; he realizes he’s been clenching it this whole time. He finally drops his gaze to the left. 

Saint finally moves at the apology. He slides down the mountain of broken Vex bodies and lands on his feet with a heavy _thud_. Out of the corner of his eye, Osiris can see the purple ribbons of his armor fluttering with motion. Saint will probably put a hand on his shoulder now, like he always does when he’s being serious. Or maybe he’ll tug Osiris’s hood down, like he does when he’s feeling forgiving. Or maybe he’ll even place his hand along Osiris’s jaw, like he does when he’s decided to speak grave sincerity in the same gentle tone as a lover speaking about an unremarkable day. Either way, Osiris doesn’t move; he allows Saint to choose which to show.

He hears the shotgun cocking and barely has time to register it before pain shoots through him. To Osiris, it’s less time than a blink - he was standing to Saint’s side, refusing to look at him, and then he’s waking up on the ground. Sagira’s Light washes over him - confident, haughty, and just a little bit judgmental, and he knows what happens even without her telling him, “Well, you can’t say you didn’t deserve it.” 

Saint walks over now, reaches down and offers Osiris a hand. For a split second, the hurt pride inside of him urges him not to take it, but he pushes the voice aside and reaches out with his own gloved hand. Saint hoists him back on his feet with one hand and not much effort. 

“You’re forgiven,” Saint says. His voice is lilting, but Osiris didn’t think it was very funny. 

“Thank you,” he responds, stiffly. 

Saint ignores his tone and holsters the gun. “What now?” He asks. His voice, unlike Osiris’s, is surprisingly upbeat. 

“My reflections report the Vex have opened up several new reality threads. One of them may lead to Panoptes itself.” 

“All of reality to explore, and a universe of Vex to kill. Where shall we start, Commander?” 

“I was exiled from the Vanguard,” Osiris reminds him. “I’m no longer your commander.”

Saint shrugs, as if he wasn’t the one who nominated Osiris for the position in the first place. “Title or not, you are the sun, and I… I suppose I am the boy chasing after it.”

“The boy in that story dies to a watery grave.” Drawing his mouth in a tight line, Osiris frowns. “Not exactly the anecdote of heroic loyalty you’re intending, unless you’re implying I’ll lead you to your death.”

Saint places a hand along Osiris’s cheek, fingers against his jawline. “I would be sorely disappointed with you if you didn’t.” He all but breathes. 

Osiris’s lungs are burning. Even mostly hidden behind the mask, his face is too. “Good then,” He says. “Let’s go hunt a Vex Mind.” 

<Final>

When they phase through the portal, Sagira doesn’t recognize where they are. She darts around in alarm as she looks for signs of Vex teleportation, which would be easy to spot in the darkness of the landscape. It’s like the sun has burnt out here; it’s dark, but more than that it’s bleak, like there’s no hope left here, and every gust of wind throwing pebbles of sand into the air saps his energy.

“I thought we prevented this!” Sagira exclaims, agitated. “When the Young Wolf took down Panoptes -- is there another Mind that’s taken over?”

“It’s okay, Sagira.” Osiris says. “This isn’t a representation of our future. It’s a representation of the Vex’s.” 

He doesn’t elaborate, but Sagira doesn’t need him to. She’s quiet for a few seconds before she gasps and finally looks towards where Osiris is staring - a tall stone structure with a triangular arch, the entrance just barely illuminated by the green-blue light dimly shining from within. 

“Osiris?” Sagira asks, in a voice that can’t believe it herself, “Is this really…?” 

“This is a long overdue visit, don’t you think so?” 

He still hesitates at at the threshold of the tomb. Saint’s Light is gone, but his presence remains in the grass peeking through the stone of the altar, the serene calm enveloping the inside of the tomb.

As the Young Wolf said, it’s both indescribably beautiful and viscerally haunting. Osiris takes a moment to marvel at the mountains and mountains of vex bodies piled in here; he can’t even see how far they stretch. With a deep breath, he finally makes his way inside. His footsteps echo and he’s disturbing the silence, but somehow he doesn’t feel unwelcome. 

Saint’s body floats on the altar. Osiris climbs the steps slowly, almost reverently, like Saint is just sleeping and too much disturbance will wake him. He pauses on the top step, Saint less than a foot away from him. Maybe he shouldn’t be here after all. His stomach roils and his throat burns, and he doesn’t climb the final step. He sits down on the stairs instead, the trail ends of his robe fluttering to a rest below him. 

He sits in silence as Sagira explores the area like an excited hummingbird, flitting from the pillar to grass to vex mountain. She avoids the main altar, though she does dip inside the beam of light briefly. Finally, she returns to where Osiris is sitting, his hands by his side. 

“Osiris,” she says, “There’s something in his hands.”

Osiris whirls around so fast the fringes on his pauldrons fly out and threaten to take out an eye. Saint is indeed clutching something. Upon closer inspection, Osiris finds the chipped and broken shell of his Ghost resting within his grasp. 

He wouldn’t move the body for the world, but he can ask the Young Wolf to at least take the Ghost back to the tower to be memorialized in a rightful place. Saint deserves at least that, a physical monument bearing testament to the existence of the Greatest Titan Who Ever Lived: proof that he was real and not just some heroic story told to young guardians. 

Osiris reaches out and gently pulls the Ghost shell out of Saint’s grasp. He holds it in his hand, marveling at how he can almost, _almost_ feel the faintest hint of Saint’s Light signature still embedded in the shell, even after all these years. Of course, there’s no way - 

A bright flash of white-blue nearly blinds him. Sagira gasps _The Vex?_ but it’s too bright for them, too warm. Not pixelated enough. When the light dies down and Osiris can see again in the darkness, a voice calls through it.

_If you’re hearing this, Osiris, then I never found you. Or more accurately, you never allowed me to find you. I could speculate why, but I’d run out of time before coming close. I don’t have to know the reason - I only have to trust that you have one._

_You’ve always been a complicated man, Osiris, full of contradictions. A pragmatic Warlock. A Commander who leads from the frontline. An old friend... an even older infuriation. You are rash and yet meticulous; you abandoned the City to protect it. Don’t think I don’t know your intention - for all the twists and turns of your personality, your behavior is transparently predictable._

_I’m leaving you this because I know you’ll find it. It may take years - centuries, perhaps, before you do, but time has never been an absolute in the Forest, and you have never allowed yourself to be held down by such limitations. Some combination of guilt or shame may keep you away, but you’ll find me eventually._

_I only ask you this - don’t flatter yourself and place the burden of my death on your shoulders. No doubt you’ve figured out the Forest’s intricacies by now. Maybe you’ve made your own simulations, venturing into other possible timelines. But allow me to flatter myself by imagining you’ve put aside some time to do this to find a simulation where I live, and we stop the Vex together. Even if it’s out there, even if you do find it… It won’t change the outcome of this timeline._

_I say this not to belittle your efforts, but to urge you to fight greater battles - battles that matter in this reality. You are capable of incredible things, Osiris. There is not - could not be - anyone like you. I followed you into this Forest because I believed in you. I do not regret that belief. It is, if anything, stronger than ever. If you haven’t already, I know you’ll find a way to defeat the Vex and save the future from a threat nobody else believes is coming. I only regret not seeing you succeed._

_If you have mourned, I am grateful. If you have moved on, I am proud. My fate is your past now, and the future holds great things for you. And who knows? Time and space are of little consequence in the Forest. Maybe in some other timeline, maybe in some other life, maybe in some other universe, even… maybe, just maybe, we will have the fortune to meet again._

_When we do, I look forward to seeing you once more._

<end>


End file.
